


Rakish, Reckless

by sawbones



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: The Last Court
Genre: First Time, M/M, Mild Blood/Injury Mention, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 07:25:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7213279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sawbones/pseuds/sawbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Wayward Bard takes a knife in the back to protect the Marquis. The Marquis wants to know why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rakish, Reckless

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the "An Assault on Your Person" event from The Last Court, where the typically conceited and selfish Bard throws himself in front of a would-be assassin. Not beta'd, so please excuse any glaring mistakes.

“I wondered if— _look out!_ ”

There was a shout, a scuffle, and a cry of pain before the Marquis of Serault could even register what had happened. Arms – surprisingly strong - were thrown around his shoulders, half-pushing half-dragging him away from a young man now at the centre of a gaggle of guards. The captive man screamed something unintelligible, his painted face contorted in fury as he thrashed in their steel hands, and it wasn’t it wasn’t until a careless kick sent the blade skittering across the marble floor to stop at  the Marquis’ feet did he realise what had happened. The would-be assassin was marched from the room, his screams and shouts cut short by the slam of the heavy doors behind them. The hall was filled with a hushed buzz of excited whispers as the Marquis found himself crowded by concerned faces; sycophants and servants mostly, but he paid them no heed - there was only one person he cared about in that moment. The court healer managed to squeeze herself to the front of the group, and reached to take the Bard from him.

“I’ll live, it’s not deep,” the moustachioed man said with a flap of his hand, “Back, I say. Back! I look rakish with scars.”

A tinkle of laughter rippled around the roomstarting with the Bard himself, but the Marquis could see the tightness of his mouth, feel the weight he rested on him. He was quick to grab the retreating healer’s sleeve and asked her quietly to have the necessary items waiting in his chambers, low enough the others did not hear. She bobbed a curtsey and scuttled away, and the Marquis made sure he waited a moment before ordering the Hall cleared – ‘to aid the investigation’ was his excuse, but it was really so fewer eyes saw him leave with his favoured subject draped around him like a cloak.

The Bard was uncharacteristically quiet on their short trip to the private living quarters. His face was pale and the black-ish stain on the shoulder of his plush navy doublet was steadily spreading, but there was a reassuring strength in his grip. The Marquis’ calm exterior belied his galloping pulse, the tensity in his jaw and shoulders. He kept one hand on the Bard’s waist and the other on his arm, not just to support him but to hide how they shook, and his stomach churned unpleasantly. The way his companion kept glancing at him did little to calm his nerves. He pretended to not notice.

The fireplace had been lit in the bedroom, and a bowl of steaming water had been left on the desk alongside some gauze, a jar of healing salve, and a small bottle of brandy. The Marquis directed the Bard to sit on a chair by the fire, straddling it facing the wrong way so the wound on the back of his shoulder was easily accessible. He started to take off his top coat, sure to make a show of struggling with the silver fastening, but his grunt of pain while trying to pull his injured side from the tight material was real. The Marquis hesitated for a second but stepped forward to push his hands away, carefully sliding the doublet off and then his crisp white shirt, stained scarlet beyond saving. Beneath, the Bard’s olive skin was smeared with blood though the wound itself had mostly stopped bleeding. He couldn’t help but notice how fine a body he had for a man who spent his days drinking and singing; he was slender, wiry almost, but his arms were shapely and his back broad and smooth. Scars here and there spoke of careless and daring younger years, and this was clearly not the first time he had caught the end of a blade. The Bard cocked his head and smiled at him over his naked shoulder in a way that made the Marquis’ neck feel warm. With a carefully measured smile of his own, he turned and laid the clothes out on the back of another chair even though they would likely not be worn again. He then picked up the bottle of brandy and held it out to his guest without looking.

 “Is that to clean the cut?” the Bard asked, feigning ignorance as he took it.

“To drink, you’ll be pleased to hear,” the Marquis replied as he soaked a ball of the gauze in elfroot scented warm water, “It would do more damage than good to wash the wound with it. You should only use the strongest clear liquor, and even then only if you have no clean water.”

“I didn’t know your Grace had trained as a physician,” the Bard said, and there was only the slightest hint of teasing in his voice.

“I have a large library and a lot of free time. Sometimes I would make something useful of it,” the Marquis said curtly. He pulled the free chair to sit behind his subject with the water bowl in his lap and the damp gauze in the other. He began to clean the blood in slow steady strokes, careful to avoid the wound itself, and to his credit the Bard didn’t flinch away.

“You must be missing it now with all the preparations for the Divine’s visit to be made,” he mused. The Marquis made a general noise of agreement but didn’t respond further. He didn’t really want to think about what had to be done, and how badly it could all go wrong. They sat in silence for a few moments while he dabbed and rinsed until the skin was clean and the cut itself was a little more visible. It was only a few digits long and didn’t gape enough to need the healing salve, but it was deep enough to bleed plenty. What nagged horribly at the Marquis was the fact it was a mere palmwidth from the nape of his neck; he laid his hand gently against warm skin, measured the distance between heroism and tragedy with his own hand.

“You knew this was going to happen today,” he said, and it was hard to not sound accusing.

The Bard gave a soft huff of laughter, “Am I so transparent?”

“You moved before he did,” the Marquis said and fished a fresh piece of gauze from the bowl to clean the injury itself. He was careful but not gentle, “My bard plays a dangerous game. That knife was meant for me, and you should have said something.”

“Are you sure, my Lord? Maybe he’s my jilted lover with a poor aim.”

“Do you hear me laughing? This was an attempt on my life that could have cost you yours, it’s not a joke,” he bristled, pressing the cut hard enough to make the Bard hiss through his teeth in pain. He regretted it immediately but didn’t say anything.  _Such a reckless man deserves no apology_ , he told himself, _nor thanks no affections, no gratitude or laughter or love--_

The Marquis sat the waterbowl down on the table a little harder than he intended to do, and the ruddy water pink with blood threated to spill. There was no cloth caught in the cut, nor any poison that he could tell of, and it would likely heal well with a handsome scar. Dampening his temper, he picked up the clean linen bandages and tapped the Bard on the arm to raise it slightly, and began steadily wrapping him up.

“Why did you do it?” –he rolled the bandage across his neck, under his arm, up over his shoulder—“Why didn’t you tell me, instead of this nonsense?”

The Bard was silent for a moment. He seemed to be watching the fire, his head cocked to the side like he was thinking. He gave a one shouldered shrug as the Marquis tied off his bandages, “Well, to gain my Lord’s attention.”

The Marquis’ heart gave a little jump. He let his hands drop to his lap, felt the slow burn start in his cheeks. The Bard had dimples on the small of his back, just above the waistband of his britches. He wanted to put the pad of his thumbs on them, to see how well they fit, “You’ve had my attention since the day I met you. You made sure of it. Don’t play the fool.”

Slowly, the Bard turned around in his chair to face the Marquis. The colour had returned to his face and he was smiling, one hand holding the half-empty brandy bottle and the other tugging coyly at his moustache, “Your Grace, if I may speak openly?”

An unamused titter, “You’ve never needed my permission before.”

“You look at me the way men may try to look at the sun: carefully, out of the corner of your eye lest your folly find you,” he stood up and leaned across the Marquis to sit the brandy bottle on the table, but didn’t pull away, “You lavish gifts upon me; cloth of gold, fine perfumes, even my favourite wine—“

“Amaranthine red,” the Marquis breathed. His hands found themselves on the Bard’s hips and he didn’t know how. The Bard simply grinned and took it as an invitation to slide onto his lap.

“Amaranthine red,” he agreed. He smelled of embrium and sandalwood, sweet and hot, and snaked his arms around the Marquis’ neck, ”My Lord, I am bright but I will not blind you. I’m warm to the touch but I will not burn you. Look me in the eyes and _tell me_ you want me, like a nobleman should.”

He couldn’t stand it anymore, he’d had his fill of loaded looks and sweet words; for all his scholarly eloquence, he knew there was more than one way to tell a man something. The Marquis fisted his hand in the Bard’s silky black hair and crushed their mouths together, and the older man’s chuckle was swallowed in a forceful kiss. His lips parted easily, letting himself be ravished; he tasted of brandy, and the Marquis could feel his smile even though he couldn’t see it.

The Bard wasted little time with one skilled hand undoing the buttons of his shirt in seconds leaving it open and hanging off his shoulders, while the other slipped down the front of his britches to grope his already half-hard cock, making the Marquis gasp against his mouth. He nuzzled the Marquis’ slender neck, enjoying the way his adam’s apple bobbed as he let the barest hint of teeth drag against skin.

“Will you take me, my Lord? Right here in this chair?” he murmured, rolling his hips to grind against his lap. The Marquis’ face was flushed red and his composure only slipped further when the Bard found one of his nipples and pinched it gently between his fingers, “Or shall I carry you to your own bed, throw you face down and have my wicked way with you?”

The Marquis shuddered at the words, delivered with grin so predatory it made his heart race. He opened his mouth to respond but his tongue felt thick and clumsy in his mouth, and he could hardly think straight with the way the Bard was rolling his thumb over his nipple again and again, sending bright little pinpoints of pleasure sparking down his spine. Both options sounded like their own version of paradise, but the idea of the Bard bouncing and moaning like a whore on the end of his cock was a heady thought indeed.

“I would have you right here,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. The Bard merely quirked an eyebrow and kissed him again – no teeth, no awkward mashing of noses, just soft lips, the tickle of his goatee, and tongue that painted his own like a maestro. The older man’s experience was evident; he knew exactly what to do - where to touch, where to stroke, or pinch, or lick – to have him unravelling in his hands. The Marquis was left feeling like an awkward teenager again, desperate, clumsy, grabbing at the Bard’s firm arse with fumbling hands.

It felt like an eternity in all the best ways, but eventually the dark haired man seemed to take pity on him. He undid the fastenings of his trousers and without breaking eye-contact, slid them off his narrow hips and kicked them to the floor; naturally, he was wearing no smallclothes. With his good hand holding onto the Marquis’ shoulder, he leaned back, affording the younger man a better look at his sleek body, displaying himself like a work of art.  His cock was hard, nestled in the crease of his thigh, and the Marquis’ mouth watered at the sight of it.

“My Lord—“ the Bard breathed, his eyes fluttering shut as he took the Marquis’ uncertain hand in his own and wrapped it around his aching cock. The Bard laughed and rocked his hips forward, “—yes, like that. Just like that.”

The Marquis marvelled at the cock in his hand, so hot and hard, not like his own yet not entirely dissimilar - and how the Bard fucked his fingers, sighing and smiling like they were silk and velvet, another wonder he had never imagined. He craned his neck, chasing another kiss from the older man who turned his head at the last moment, leaving him to lick and nip at his jaw instead. He gave a noise of impatience and frustration which only made the Bard laugh louder.

“You’re still wearing far too many clothes for someone so eager,” he chastised, his lips so close they almost brushed but he pulled away again when the Marquis tried for another kiss. The lord groaned, and tried to wriggle out of the offending garments as fast as he could without unseating his soon-to-be lover, but the purr of approval the Bard made when he saw his flushed, leaking member was enough to sooth his irritation – sometimes flattery _did_ work. He moved closer, pushing their pricks together, taking the Marquis’ hand in his to stroke them off like before, “That feels good, doesn’t it? That feels _good_.”

The Marquis responded mutely with a nod – he wasn’t surprised the Bard could still talk and posture and act up when it felt like his own brain was about to start leaking out his ears, he just didn’t know how. Part of him – the part that was still furious, because no amount of kisses and touches could change that – wanted to find a way to shut up him up. He wrapped his free arm around the Bard and drove his hips forward, trying to gain more leverage, more purchase, more friction, _anything_ , but it wasn’t enough. The Marquis reached out to the table, fumbling blindly until he found the unused jar of healing salve. He tried to open it with one hand but only succeed in nearly knocking over the bowl of water that had been abandoned there, and after a moment the Bard simply leaned over and took it off him. He didn’t say anything as he cracked the seal on the jar but he never once broke eye-contact with the Marquis – not when he tossed the lid carelessly over his shoulder, or when he dipped two fingers into the slick, smooth creamlike salve. His decadently long lashes fluttered lightly as his hand disappeared behind him, but the moan between them was entirely the Marquis’ when he realised where it had went.

“I’ve done this before, you know. Thinking of you, of these beautiful long fingers,” the Bard murmured, taking the Marquis’ hand and pressing the bony knuckles to his lips as he fucked himself on his own digits, “Every bed I’ve tumbled into, every lover I’ve taken – or who has taken me – since I came to your court—well, almost every lover—“

It was enough – no, it was too much. He couldn’t take any more babbling and teasing. The Marquis jerked his hand away from the Bard’s mouth with a growl, a sound he could have never dreamed of making usually, and grabbed the older man’s wrist that was behind his back. He shoved the hand and its slick fingers away, taking him roughly by the hips and dragging him forward; after a second of fumbling that made his teeth clench, he pushed into the Bard with one hard thrust. It was enough to surprise him, to knock the words out of his mouth as his leg jerked and he kicked the table beside them with enough force to send the jar of salve clattering to the floor.

“You scholarly _savage_ ,” the Bard managed to gasp, but he was laughing as let his forehead drop to the Marquis’ thin shoulder. He gave over control - if only for a moment - and let himself be rocked ruthlessly, thighs spread as far as he could, trusting the iron grip on his flank to stop him from being bounced onto the floor entirely. The Marquis had his feet flat on the floor, his teeth bared as he tried to breathe through his flash of temper, but it didn’t work. He wrapped his arms around the other man, crushing him against his chest, holding on to him like he was afraid he might disappear altogether if he didn’t.

“Stupid, _reckless_ man,” he grunted, each word punctuated by a toe-curling thrust, “You fool, you beautiful, infuriating—“

Employing a silencing tactic of his own, the Bard grasped the Marquis by the ears and kissed him – perhaps less artfully than before but no less skilfully, swallowing the angry words and his own breathless moans. He slid his hands down to his shoulders, rubbing and squeezing them to encourage the younger man to loosen his grip, even if he was rather enjoying the unexpected man-handling. With more room to move he could reclaim the pace, rolling his hips steadily, unrelentingly, tongue tracing the shell of the Marquis’ ear as he whispered encouragement and promises, declarations of perfection and adoration in retaliation to the insults. This time when a hand found his cock, it required no guidance; he tipped his head back with a groan, bucking into the tight fist around him. The Marquis took advantage of the Bard’s wantonness to nip and suck at his exposed throat, leaving a trail of red marks on his perfect bronze skin that they both hoped would still be there by morning.

The Bard’s prick was leaking steadily, precum smeared across both their bellies, and his thighs were clamped firmly around the Marquis’ waist as he bounced. Somewhere in the back of the Marquis’ mind he was revelling in the older man – usually so poised, so perfect – reduced to a panting, moaning mess in his lap, but all he could focus on how tight he was, how slick and warm like he was made to be fucked.  In fact, he was so wrapped up in the feeling that the Bard’s sudden orgasm actually took him by surprise; the moustachioed man gasped, his back arched like a bow as he came in quick, thick spurts, striping the Marquis’ heaving chest. It was only a few strokes before the younger man followed suit, his mouth pressed to the Bard’s uninjured shoulder and his eyes screwed shut as he shallowly thrust through the aftershocks.

They stayed like that for a few moments, regaining their breath and their wits before the Bard moved to stand up on shaking legs – he was stopped a short noise of protest. The Marquis was quickly losing feeling in his legs and his arms ached from supporting his lover, but he didn’t want their embrace to end so soon. He lifted his head from the Bard’s shoulder, and pressed his fingers gently against the edge of his bandages; they would surely need to be changed again after that, but the Bard showed no sign of discomfort.

“Never again,” he said, voice only slightly shaky. He stared up at the handsome man above him with iron eyes, “You will never keep things from me again, not like this.”

“For you, my lord: anything,” The Bard said. His hands came to rest gently on either side of the Marquis’ face. He pushed the young man’s hair from his face, his thumbs tracing the line of his cheekbones down to his lips before he leaned in to kiss him. It was soft and infinitely sweet, the first of any real tenderness between them all evening. Despite his resolve, somehow the Marquis found himself blushing and the Bard pulled away. His grin was only a little smug, “Though I can’t say it wasn’t worth it.”

 

 


End file.
